


The Surviving Spy

by Jael_Lyn



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jael_Lyn/pseuds/Jael_Lyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair goes undercover in to solve a series of gang-related murders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Surviving Spy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters depicted within this story do not belong to us, but are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, Paramount and The SciFi Channel. No money has been made from the writing of this story.
> 
> Author's Note: I started this story almost a year ago, and abandoned it after the first few scenes. I thought it had some promise, but I guess I had to let it grow.  
> I've been blessed with great beta help from Bluewolf and StarWatcher. I'm grateful for their generous help, and you can trust that I'm responsible for any errors that remain.

 

**The Surviving Spy**   
By [ Jael Lyn](mailto:jael_lyn@hotmail.com)  
2010

 

 

_Surviving spies, finally, are those who bring back news from the enemy's camp._

_Sun Tzu – The Art of War; 6th Century BCE_

 

Elizar Isaola slowly rose from the crate he used for a chair.  His pale yellow shirt strained across muscled shoulders and a barrel chest.  He'd added the bulk to his frame during multiple stints in prison gyms.  Tattoos snaked down both arms, ending in a skull topped by a fedora, which declared his gang allegiance to the world.  His broad face, showing a hint of long-ago Mayan ancestors, framed dark eyes glistening with contempt and suspicion.  Dim light filtered in from the second story windows of the warehouse.  For calculated effect, he stepped from the shadows into a patch of light.

 

Around him, he sensed attention shifting toward him and the confrontation he planned to provoke.  The courier stood a few inches shorter and forty pounds lighter.  Isaola anticipated the smaller man would shy away when he approached.  Most men showed him automatic deference based on reputation alone.  His irritation flared when his quarry gave no outward reaction to his looming presence.  He gave the man before him a sharp shove.  "You walk in here, try to give me this shit."  Another shove.  His target stumbled back a step, coming up against two of Elizar's foot soldiers.  "Maybe we make this simple.  I just let Jaime test out his new toy."  Jaime Decena, Elizar's lieutenant, took his cue, grinding the barrel of his new Five-Seven semi-auto into the man's ribs.

 

"I do my job," the man said grimly.  "Roro vouched for me."

"Roro – he's not the boss right now."  Elizar pulled his own Five-Seven from the waistband of his pants, relishing the feel of the weapon in his hand.  The Americans made fine weapons.  Roro, their local guy, said this man was their most dependable courier.  Despite Roro's confidence, Isaola had his doubts.  This Anglo didn't look like much; short, unshaven, little gold glasses tinted gray underneath a dirty white ball cap.  Only the bright green eyes stood out, and so far, he still showed no reaction.  

 

Isaola, a veteran of many such confrontations, understood how intimidation could produce truth from the weaker man.  _Time to find out where this one stands._   Elizar pressed closer, and traced the barrel along the man's jaw, letting it come to rest next to the gold earring.  "Maybe you need another ring.  Maybe I just add another hole for you – right here."  He jabbed the gun into the man's head, hard enough to leave a bruise.  Hard enough to hint that there was more to come; enough to encourage a little fear.

 

The man said nothing.  Tension vibrated through his frame, but he made no move, made no attempt to placate his antagonist.  After a few breathless moments he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.  "Whatever, man.  You got the firepower.  You can ventilate my brains, or you can let me get back to delivering your product as planned.  Places you can't go, if you recall, which is why Roro brought me in."  He tilted his head slightly.  "I happened to be here a little early and you got your shipment –so what?  You think it's news that the Cascade X-8s have guns?"  

 

They stared at each other, motionless.  Elizar pressed the gun a bit harder.  The man slowly let out a long breath.  "Your call, man," he said softly.

 

_Ah, so this one is no coward._   Elizar stepped back, resting the pistol against his shoulder, barrel up.  "Maybe I don't want a mess here.  We wait for another time.  Go.  Make your deliveries.  I'll be watching you."

 

"Watch all you want, man.  Nothing to see."  Elizar motioned for Jaime and the other foot soldiers to step back.

 

The warehouse was deathly quiet.  Gang members scattered around the perimeter watched as the man settled the straps of the canvas bags over his shoulder, and slipped through the battered doors.  Moments later the sound of a motorcycle began to fade into the distance.

 

"Follow him," Elizar ordered with the jerk of his hand. "Kill him if you need to."

 

&&&&&

 

Two blocks east, Jim Ellison watched as a blurred figure flashed by on a Harley, hunched low over the handlebars, baseball cap worn backwards.  A black helmet was lashed to the back of the bike.  Riding without a helmet was a traffic violation in Washington, but Ellison made no move to start the truck or hit the siren.  His hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel.  

 

No helmet meant no contact.  All of Ellison's fears about this operation surged to the fore.

 

_Shit, Sandburg.  What have you gotten yourself into?_

 

&&&&&

 

Blair ran the stop sign, leaning the bike hard to take the turn.  The vibration of the Harley didn't compensate for the trembling in his own hands.  Isaola stepped right out of his worst nightmare.  Someone would be following, of that he had no doubt.  He needed to do this just right.  Balance the need to maintain his cover with self-preservation.  

 

The sight of Jim's truck, along with his partner's silhouette, was nearly been his undoing. Every fiber of his being ached to stop, ditch the bike and throw himself headlong into the old Ford truck. Jim had the experience and the expertise for this kind of stuff.  He'd watched the truck in his mirror as it faded to nothing.  They'd been at this for weeks, but it felt like a lifetime.  He couldn't bail out, not just yet.  It wasn't only the case.  If members of the X-8s were on his tail, even just to observe, he wasn't going to lead Jim directly into their path.

 

_Breathe, Blair, breathe.  You are calm.  You can do this._

 

He pulled onto the ramp leading to the freeway.  There were other routes to his destination, but maybe the freeway would reveal any pursuit.  Shit.  And what was he thinking, cover or no, to cruise out here at seventy without a helmet?  What did he know about being followed?  Why hadn't he read more spy novels?  He could mentally hear Jim chanting profanities over the risk, and the stupidity, and…there.

 

He was being followed.  Damn.

 

Next ramp, first delivery.  Play it out or run for cover?  He studied the pursuing car in his mirror.  The bike had plenty of power, but the thought of trying to lose his shadow by gunning through the side streets of Cascade at Mach 1 was scary.  What if he wiped out?  Or caused an accident, or hit a civilian?  Tempting to evade immediate danger, but not smart.  He took the off ramp, resolving to stick with their earlier plan.  Follow the routine and hope to all the gods that Jim had gotten the message and executed his end as planned. 

 

First stop, Spa Northwest, home of the five hundred dollar cut and the  Espresso Body Wrap .   _Only in the northwest._   He eased the bike around back to the employees' parking. Ostensibly, this was his role.  Deliver product for the X-8s to places where the average gang banger wasn't welcome, or would be too noticeable.  He had three or four deliveries a day, all prearranged, just like clockwork; an illicit UPS without the brown uniform.  Blair pulled a pager out of his coat pocket and sent the prearranged coded message.  Five minutes, then go in.  

 

He set a timer on his watch and started to change.  The jeans and boots would get him anywhere, but the worn coat, flannel and hat had to go.  After over a month undercover, these quick changes were now automatic.  He replaced them with a cashmere sweater over his white tee and pulled his hair out of the tie.  A few swipes with a comb, a change to designer frames, add a watch worth more than his monthly paycheck.  Presto chango, he transformed several socioeconomic levels and a world away.  He checked his image in the rearview mirror.

 

His shadow was still with him, a battered low-rider parked behind a dumpster at the end of the alley.  Shit.  Were they waiting to make a move or just watching?  Or did they plan to kill him after he made the deliveries?  Again, he wavered between running or staying with the case.

 

How did Naomi's little boy end up here?

 

Unfortunately, his memory was fairly clear on that point.  Eduardo Elma, AKA Roro, had opened this door after a little post-arrest chat with Detectives Ellison and Sandburg.  Drugs and gangs weren't usually the territory of Major Crime, but a long series of execution style murders were.  They'd been assigned the case after murder number three.  After murder number seven with zero progress, Jim was out of patience.  When Roro stumbled onto their radar, Jim made a patented end run.  He didn't pick up the phone and call the gang unit.  He wanted an infiltration, and he wanted to run it himself.  Hell, he wanted to do the deep penetration himself.

 

At least that had been Jim's idea.  Roro had taken one look at Jim and launched into a hail of impenetrable Spanish.  Blair's command of the language wasn't as good as Jim's, but even he could translate the meaning of 'loco – muy loco'.  Blair and the official departmental translator had waited on the sidelines while Jim and Roro railed at each other.  The expression on the translator's face told Blair the conversation was – creatively expressive.  

 

Then Roro pointed his direction.  The translator shrugged, and said, "Sorry, Sandburg.  He says to send you.  He can show you how to act."

 

Blair remembered his reaction, something along the line of, "No way, no how, not in this life."  Initially, Jim had agreed adamantly.  Unfortunately, the underground cop network spread the word that Major Crime was sweating a well placed member of the X-8s.  Throw in a little inter-jurisdictional politics and within twenty-four hours Naomi's little boy was wearing green contact lenses, his hair trimmed, straightened, and streaked with blond.  He'd quit shaving for days at a time.  The whole thing actually made him yearn for the days when jackboots, a buzz cut, and a uniform were his biggest fears.

 

Not that he and Jim hadn't argued.  Jim's original idea had been to keep everything within Major Crime's very tight circle.  When other departments crashed the party, the plan expanded. Jim had a multitude of objections, including lack of backup, pathetic communications, and the fact that including more people increased the potential of a leak.  Oh, and the fact that he thought the guys in Narcotics, along with their captain, were total idiots.  Blair objected on the basis of sheer terror.  

 

Even though Simon Banks supported them, they were both overruled.  The reluctant Roro coached his new recruit on the intimacies of gang life, lessons which were both memorable and horrifying.  Since then, he'd begun a new life, building a case, piece by piece, identifying the most likely suspects and their roles. He'd played the part of courier for over a month, three or four days a week, without incident – until today.  A week ago, Isaola and crew had showed up and seemed to take over.  Everything he'd learned about the gang's structure was in flux.  The whole dynamics had changed.

 

Why, why, why had they let Captain Pannell bully them into changing his routine?  Stopping by the gang headquarters early had damn near gotten him killed.  Was Isaola wary enough to kill him?

 

Great.  If he hadn't been scared before, he definitely was scared now.  For the first time in years, he yearned for Jim's voice saying, "Stay in the truck, Sandburg."

 

The timer went off, and Blair slipped through the back door for his transfer.  The usual patter of conversation and laughter echoed from the front of the spa.  Down a short hallway to a closet, leave the bag containing the product on the hook.  After the first week, he knew the recipient was a young woman with a lifestyle, and a habit, far above her means.  No words were spoken, no money exchanged.  The X-8s had other methods for transferring the funds, and that wasn't his end of the deal, nor his concern.  If anyone in the salon confronted him, he was just a moneyed, generation-Y, urban male coming to meet a friend.  The entire exchange took less than twenty seconds and, on this run, he saw no one.  

 

He paused by the rear door.  Since becoming a cop, he'd rarely wished to be carrying a weapon.  This was definitely one of those times.  He'd give anything for body armor and a grenade launcher.  He took a deep breath before heading back to the bike, hoping he wouldn't be walking into a hail of gunfire or a knife.  When he pulled out of the parking lot, he waited for crossing traffic a bit longer than necessary.  

 

He still had company.

 

&&&&&

 

"Jim, if you don't quit pacing around my office, I'm going to lock you up in an interrogation room."  Simon Banks dumped his much abused cigar on his desk.  "You had the 'no contact' signal for a reason.  If he's using it, there must be a reason, and he's handling it.  Show a little trust."

 

"I know, I know.  But you didn't see the look on Sandburg's face.  Whatever went down, it wasn't something that we anticipated.  He doesn't have a lot of signaling options to choose from."  Ellison's plaid shirt was folded back to the elbows.  His leather coat was still draped precariously on one of Banks' chairs, exactly where his toss landed it when he'd stormed into his captain's office.  "I said it over and over and over.  We never should have sent him in so exposed.  No wire, no communication, no backup.  We're blind and Blair's totally exposed."

 

"A wire was out of the question.  We hashed this out from the beginning,"  Banks said.

 

"So says Captain Pannell and the mental midgets from Narcotics.  We could have come up with something.  I made some suggestions at the time.  What do I know, after all?  Oh, that's right.  If I remember correctly, I actually did covert ops.  I've gone undercover."  He glared at his superior officer.  "All Pannell has is a decoder ring out of Crackerjacks."

 

Banks wanted to do his share of venting along the same lines, but it wasn't the time.  He wholeheartedly agreed with Jim's assessment, but political realities held him back.  If the operation was coming to a crisis, he couldn't afford to jeopardize what little goodwill they had with Pannell.  "It's a joint operation, Jim.  We can't ignore the expertise Narcotics brings to the table."

 

"They're a bunch of grandstanding, macho, overconfident wing nuts."  Banks gave him the patented, 'Ellison, cool it,' look without success.  

 

Jim carried on without missing a beat, his words a counterpoint to his restless pacing.  "We didn't need their grubby little fingers in our case in the first place.  Their contribution has been zip.  Sandburg's the one with his neck sticking out a mile.  You think they're worried about his safety?  They'd be happy to collect a headline over Sandburg's body."

 

"That's uncalled for Jim, and you know it."  He glared angrily at his detective, about to lose patience with everyone and everything involved in this mess.

 

"I don't know it.  I'm saying it because I believe it."

 

"If Blair thought the danger was critical, he wouldn't keep following his delivery schedule," Banks argued.  He guarded his expression.  He was nearly as worried as Jim, just not as vocal.  Ellison looked completely unconvinced.  Banks knew his detective, and guessed time was running out.  If they didn't hear definitively from Sandburg soon, Jim was going to implode, or insist on bringing his partner in personally.  Neither was a very appealing prospect.  In truth, he wouldn't be far behind when it came to rescue.  The final clearance for the operation had come from him.  If Sandburg came to grief, it would be on his watch.  "Come on, Jim.  Sit down and we'll run through it again."  He filled a mug with coffee and held it out to Jim.  "Go through what you remember.  You're sure you didn't hear anything?"

 

"No," Jim said, disgust dripping from his voice.  "It's all the new guys that showed up last week.  I tried to tell everyone this, and the Narcotics hotshots blew me off."  He lowered his voice.  "Sir, even with my hearing, I can't get close enough now to filter through the gangsta rap or whatever the hell music they had going in that warehouse today."  He took a sip of Simon's special brew and closed his eyes.  "I don't know.  The vibe seemed really different."

 

"Like the regular players weren't there?  Or was it just these new people you and Sandburg talked about?"

 

"Maybe."  Jim rubbed fretfully at his head, as though dredging through the scraps of memory was painful.  "Something was - off.  It wasn't just new faces.  Activity was way up.  A lot of traffic in and out that seemed unusual.  Vehicles I hadn't seen before.  More lookouts in new spots, or at least not the usual ones. It was like the hum from a beehive.  Beyond that, I can't pin it down."

 

Simon's office door banged open as Megan Connor burst through.  "Rafe called from the third delivery stop.  Sandburg just put the 'meet now' sign on, but he still has the helmet off.  Is that a combination we planned for?"  

 

Jim was already out of his chair.  She grabbed him by the arm, halting his headlong rush.  "I'm worried.  Rafe says he has company.  A lot of company."

 

"Son of a bitch," Jim said, and pushed past her.

 

Connor looked expectantly at Banks, who nodded his agreement.  "Go.  Watch his back and keep me informed."

 

He snatched up the phone.  "Rhonda, I need Brown, Fuentes and McGill in my office three minutes ago.  Call the motor pool and tell them we need three street rides with plates that don't trace back to the PD.  It's a crisis and we have no time.  Right.  The cars need vests and off-network com gear.  No police radios, nothing that's going to get picked up on a scanner.  Just tell them it's an emergency and I'll cover the paperwork and authorizations."  He'd make the call to the armory himself.  He was finished sending his people out with the equivalent of flyswatters.  If Blair needed help to break cover, he was going to have a fully prepared escort.  

 

Pannell and his boys could shove it.  From now on, he wasn't waiting around for consensus.  When it came to personnel from Major Crime, he would have the last word.

 

&&&&&

 

Blair shivered, cold to the bone with a combination of damp and wind chill from the bike.  He'd blown out of his last delivery at top speed, hoping to lose his pursuers.  Of course, the drizzle of rain when he'd hopped on had increased to a driving rain.  He pushed his ride as far as stability would allow, but visibility wasn't worth shit, and the road was slick with rain.

 

His followers closed the gap again, and he needed a bit more breathing room.  It wasn't too subtle, but he was going to take one final shot to lose them.  Stopped at a light, he gunned the engine, shot over the median and into the opposing lane, making a sharp U-turn into the oncoming traffic.  Horns blew as he swerved wildly, but he made it.  The car pursuing him was stuck in traffic, still stopped at the light, and pointed the wrong direction.  He would take whatever seconds he could get.  He zoomed through a sharp right turn, cutting off his pursuers' line of sight.  He opened up the big Harley engine, weaving around multiple cars to pass, leaving irate motorists in his wake.  He didn't have the luxury of poking along politely at thirty-five miles an hour.  

 

Pacific Place, the newest luxury mall in Cascade, loomed in front of him.  You could buy Gucci bags or Jimmy Choo shoes and have a valet park your car.  Jim had chosen it specifically in the hope that a typical gang member would think twice about entering such alien territory.  He cornered into the parking garage at a speed that scared the crap out of him, dodged the traffic barriers and headed to the second floor.  With luck, all the carload of X-8s would see was an empty street and call off the hunt.  In any case, they had no particular reason to suspect this was his ultimate destination.  He squeezed the bike into a delivery bay, barely maneuvering in front of two parked trucks.  Illegal as hell, but there was a chance his pursuers wouldn't see the abandoned motorcycle even if they cruised by.  He hit the stairwell at a run.

 

Even if Rafe deciphered the meaning of his jumbled distress signal, it might take time for his backup to arrive.  He couldn't leave the mall.  He had no transportation, and they didn't have an alternate pickup site.  He needed to somehow be visible to Major Crime and invisible to any X-8 who ventured in, the ultimate contradiction.  He needed camouflage and he needed it fast.  

 

No time to be picky.  He dashed into the nearest men's store, intending to buy something – anything to change his appearance dramatically.  A red clown wig wouldn't have been out of consideration, but Cascade Place wouldn't traffic in anything so tacky.  The store he'd chosen was high-end, but so was everything in this mall.  He had six hundred bucks in his boot plus some fifties in his pocket. Jim had insisted on emergency money since he carried none of his own ID, and had provided it out of his personal funds when Pannell had objected.  

 

He made a quick pass through the store. He grabbed a gray tweed driving cap, a mid-length black overcoat, a shirt, a scarf, and headed for a dressing room.  His wind-blown appearance looked too scruffy for a normal customer.  A salesclerk intercepted him, and he had to talk his way in, spinning a line of bullshit that he had splashed mud on his clothes and was late to meet his fiancée's family.  He started rattling off brand names, making demands about fabric and color, and about then the guy just unlocked the dressing room door and asked what else he could bring.

 

Finally alone, Blair toed off his boots, carefully retrieving the cash, and put on the rest of the clothing.  For speed shopping, everything was a pretty good fit.  Okay, so he looked like an idiot in a button-down, but that was sort of the point.  The clerk popped in with choices for pants and two cashmere sweaters – the same color family as the shirt, of course.  Blair cut his patter short and shut the dressing room door.

 

He decided the V-neck sweater was so preppy it wasn't a bad idea, and pulled it over his head.  His jeans were wet, so he chose the least-expensive pair from the pile, and pulled them over his goose-pimpled legs.  He blanched at the prices.  He'd have to tuck in the tags, because it was all coming back.  No way was Jim picking up this tab.  

 

His annoyingly attentive salesperson returned.  Would the young gentleman care to try some Armani slacks?  No, the young gentlemen would like you to ring these up, and he was wearing them out.  He gave instructions to bag up his boots, and requested shoes to replace them.  The clerk, anticipating a big sale, scurried off to comply.

 

Blair carefully hid the clothing tags where they wouldn't be seen.  Before leaving the dressing room, the gold-rimmed glasses and the green contacts bit the dust.  At the checkout counter, he replaced them with an appallingly expensive pair of sunglasses with photochromic lenses.  At least they would fade enough that he could get by wearing them indoors.  The tag could go under the hat.  The shoes were Italian leather slip-on's and fit reasonably well.  Not his style, but he could live with them.  Another item that would be coming straight back.

 

The total came within five dollars of exceeding his stash.  Jim was going to kill him if these couldn't be returned.  He made a quick check in the mirror.  With the coat thrown over his arm, the cashmere sweater, scarf, and his real eye color, he couldn't look more different.  He pushed his hair up under the cap, settled it down low and put on the sunglasses.  Hopefully, if the X-8s came looking, they wouldn't spot their erstwhile courier in Harris tweed, silk and cashmere.  

 

According to their plan, he was supposed to call Jim from a public phone to arrange a pick up.  At least that had been the plan before a carload of gorillas followed him everywhere, and scared the bejesus out of him.  He took a deep breath.  In his haste to conceal his ride, he'd ended on the wrong side of the mall.  He'd have to walk the length of the place, totally exposed, to get to the phones.  What a mess.  At this moment, even with what amounted to a disguise, the distance he'd need to cover to make his call seemed more like a gauntlet than a simple stroll.

 

&&&&&

 

Megan Connor scanned the mall from the third floor atrium, worry building with each passing minute.  Built in a large L-shape, Ellison had practically thrown her out of the truck at the middle of the L. He would come from the east after leaving the truck.  To their advantage, she could see both directions from her vantage point.  No sight of Blair, but she'd picked out at least two potential gang members.  Rafe hadn't been kidding about the pursuit.  In this setting, at least they were relatively easy to spot.  Her cell vibrated, and she answered.

__

_Do you see him?_

__

"And hello to you, too, Jim.  Haven't found him yet _._ I've seen some X-8s.  They look like thugs at the cotillion."

__

_He didn't leave the bike at the pre-arranged spot._

__

"Do you think he got here?"

 

_He probably stashed it somewhere out of sight, which is smart, but doesn't help us.  Rafe says the pursuit car dropped some guys at the food court entrance and kept going.  He's staying with their vehicle_.

 

"And great evil oafs they are.  They're carrying.  Can we sic mall security on them?  Create a distraction while we look?"

 

_Perfect.  A shootout with rent-a-cops around civilians.  Have any other bright ideas, Connor?_

__

"Just a thought.  Are you inside yet?  Is it just us?"

 

_On my way in.  Simon is sending more help in case it gets rough.  Sandburg should have called.  He was supposed to call._

 

"I can see the pay phones, and they're all empty.  Where would he go?  Hold it, I think I see him.  Yeah, I'm sure it's him.  He's wearing a hat and light blue sweater.  He's carrying a black coat.  He looks totally different, Jim."

 

_He must have changed clothes.  Good, he's thinking, but he's worried.  Where is he?_

 

"Walking my direction, and toward you.  I'm right above the escalators.  Uh, oh.  We're in trouble.  Our big lug watchers are right behind him."  I'm going to go get him.  No worries.

 

_No!  Connor!  Connor!_

 

Silly Yanks.  Megan closed the phone and took the first escalator, putting her directly in Blair's path.  One of the gang members was about twenty feet behind Blair's left shoulder.  The guy was staring intently into each face, clearly looking for someone.  He didn't seem to have registered that his quarry was right in front of him.  

 

She pasted a huge grin on her face, dashed toward Blair and pulled him into a passionate kiss.  She shifted her weight and pulled Blair clockwise, turning his back to the enemy as the man passed.  Nose to nose, with her arms around his neck she whispered, "Hello, Sandy.  We have company."

 

&&&&& 

 

Jim snapped the phone closed in disgust as he ran.  Connor was a good cop, but definitely had a wild streak.  The dingo dame freelancing was enough to scare anyone.  The situation was damn near out of control as it was.  He could hear Sandburg's voice in his head, pointing out with a chuckle that the reason the Aussie annoyed him was because they were much alike.  In Jim's opinion, that was an observation which, of course, in no way resembled the truth.

 

He slowed to a fast walk, dodging shoppers while he dialed up his vision.  

 

He spotted Connor on the escalator, then scaled up his vision even more to watch her put a lip-lock on Sandburg.  The guy walking past them had to be from the X-8s.  _Good move, Connor, keep him turned.  Yeah.  Keep walking, dude.  Don't see him.  Keep walking._   Jim focused on the man's face, and watched his expression change.  He suspected.  The man's hand went to his pocket, and Jim could see the outline of a handgun against the fabric as he started to turn.

 

_Oh, God.  No, please, no._

 

&&&&&

 

Blair felt Megan's body tense.  He turned in time to see Jaime, looking huge and mean, bearing down on them.  They had nowhere to run.  The place was full of civilians, and that would be no deterrent to a gangbanger like Jaime.  He had no choice but to bluff.  

 

He pushed Megan behind him, stepped forward, and shoved a finger into Jaime's chest.  "You shouldn't be here," he said, keeping his voice low and flat.  "She doesn't know.  Don't screw it with my girl."  Jaime stopped, his gaze flicking to Megan and back.  It reminded Blair of a snake, which wasn't far wrong from the reality.  "Go," Blair hissed.  "You're going to blow it.  Tell Elizar we're cool here.  Get the fuck away from me, and get out of here before a security guard searches you."  Blair stepped back, praying that Jaime would be stupid enough, unsettled enough, to fall for it.  

 

Connor pulled on his arm.  "Baby, come on.  We're late."  She tweaked the collar of his shirt, playing the role like a pro.  She gave him another kiss, still pulling him back and obscuring Jaime's view.

 

Blair shrugged.  "What can you do, man?  The lady needs me."  They brushed by Jaime, two lovers without a care in the world.  Blair's heart beat a counter tempo to every step, every millimeter of distance between them and disaster.  Jaime could pull his piece any second and start blasting away.  Five steps.  Ten steps.  Then twenty.

 

Megan snuggled her head onto his shoulder as they continued to walk.  "Oh, Sandy, Ellison's going to kill us," she said softly, smiling brightly.

 

&&&&&

 

"Thanks, Rhonda.  Tell them to be in my office ASAP.  I want everyone here to debrief."  Banks tossed the phone back into its cradle and studied the huddled form of his detective, shivering under two blankets pirated from first aid on the second floor.  Sighing, he refilled Sandburg's mug of coffee and handed it to the miserable young man.  Blair immediately wrapped his hands around the ceramic like it was the last warmth in the universe.  

 

Banks leaned against his desk and folded his arms across his chest.  Yelling at this point would be counterproductive.  "Okay, Sandburg, tell me again why you took the Harley from the mall in the first place, much less rode across town in the rain half-clothed."

 

"If I try to hop in Jim's truck and one of the X-8s sees me, the case is blown.  Leaving the bike would've been a dead giveaway, too.  I know Jaime.   He and his buds would have gunned all three of us down without a thought, and they would have taken out everyone else in the vicinity.  Would that really have been your preference?"

 

"I can't believe you talked Ellison into this," Banks said, shaking his head.  Some of this made sense, in weird, Sandburgian fashion.  The clothes were still a puzzle, but Banks figured he could come back to that little detail.  Only partially mollified, he motioned for Sandburg to continue.

 

Blair pulled the blankets a bit closer.  "Once Henri and the guys arrived, I knew they could run cover for me.  Even Jim couldn't argue with that.  Connor staged a little public spat and we went our separate ways."  Blair looked up through the tendrils of wet hair still plastered to his forehead.  "Thanks for sending the troops in after me.  Did Captain Pannell pitch a fit?"    

 

"We have these procedures to use them, Sandburg.  I'm not about to leave one of my people in jeopardy.  Just because this is a joint operation doesn't mean Narcotics runs this department. In any case, Pannell isn't your concern."  _Not that I asked him, or that I care about his overrated ego._

 

"Did H really engineer a fender-bender?" Blair asked.

 

"That's the word.  They seemed pretty serious about following you.  He didn't want to take any chances.  I have to give him credit for ingenuity, but God help us with the paperwork."

 

"He's okay?" Blair asked, struggling to get he words out through trembling lips.  "Those guys are so unpredictable.  Seriously, they could have just started shooting.  I'd never forgive myself..."

 

"He's fine," Banks snapped, slightly exasperated.  "At the moment, I'm more worried about you.  What's the wind chill at sixty miles and hour in a wet t-shirt?  What happened to your coat?  Connor said you had a coat, and a sweater, for that matter."

 

Rhonda appeared at the door, interrupting them.  "Captain, I found a sweatshirt."  She held out a ratty, gray, Cascade PD sweatshirt.  She watched silently as Blair stripped off his wet shirt and shrugged into the worn fleece.  He sighed in relief, rubbing his arms to generate more warmth.  "I brought you some instant noodle soup, too," she said, passing it to him.  "Not exactly gourmet, but it might warm you up better than coffee."  Blair nodded and smiled his thanks, greedily sipping the soup after blowing across the surface.

 

"The coat?" Banks asked impatiently as soon as Rhonda departed.

 

"I thought I'd beat the rain, that's all."  Suddenly, the bottom of the soup container needed all of Blair's attention.

 

"Sandburg!"

 

"Okay, okay!  I couldn't get the clothes wet. I need to take them back, all right?  That stuff cost a fortune, and I was using the emergency money Jim gave me.  I hid behind a delivery truck and changed out of all that stuff.  I'm lucky no one called me in for indecent exposure or sexual perversion."

 

"Sandburg, only you.  Only you."  Inwardly, Banks cringed.  He remembered the argument about ID and money.  Jim must have circumvented the decision with his own funds.  All those little flaws Ellison had complained about initially had come back to bite them in the ass.  

 

Wait until Jim got wind of this and there'd be no end to the tirade.  By comparison, his upcoming conversation with Captain John Pannell would be a cakewalk.  Out in the bullpen, Banks could overhear the commotion of his detectives converging on Major Crime.  Henri Brown arrived first, sparring with Fuentes and Rafe over the paperwork his little intentional traffic accident would generate.  Thank God the gang members hadn't made them as cops.  Sandburg was right; it could have been a bloodbath.  Connor and a thunderous looking Jim Ellison brought up the rear.  The group jostled for seats, and all eyes turned toward Sandburg, who still looked pale and blue-lipped with cold.

 

"Thanks guys, all of you," Blair said, taking a moment to swallow the last of the soup.  "Connor, that was inspired.  You win the Oscar."

 

"Actually, it would be an AFI, Sandy.  I should hire an agent," she said, happy to tease after all the tension.  She ignored Ellison's glare, and decided to have a little fun.  "Besides, we made a cute couple.  I have a weakness for that blond hair you're sporting these days." She noticed the rain soaked jeans, still damp hair and the blankets.  "You're soaked.  What happened to you?"

 

"Later, Connor," Jim said sharply.  The previous levity left the room like it had been sucked into a vacuum.  "Go back to the beginning.  What happened, Chief?  What set this off?"

 

&&&&&

 

"Pull him out?"  Pannell bolted from his chair and leaned across the desk as he shouted.  "You can't be serious.  Without consulting me?  It’s not your call, Simon!"

 

Banks struggled to keep a rein on his temper.  "Actually, John, it is my call.  This is a joint operation, but I trust my people and their assessment.  I'm not sending Sandburg back in there."

 

Captain John Pannell paced the length of his office, gesturing wildly.  Banks had expected the histrionics.  It was part of Pannell's over-the-top persona.  "So he got asked some uncomfortable questions.  That's no reason to panic!  I expected something like this out of a pseudo-cop like Sandburg, but not Ellison!  And certainly not from you!"

 

Banks glared angrily across the desk.  An all-out shouting match with a fellow commander was not the way to conduct business.  "We're not talking about a few questions, and we certainly aren't talking panic or hysterics.  Sandburg's been undercover over a month, and he knows the players better than any of us. We had good intel from Roro going in, and we could make reasonable assessments of the danger. Last week new faces started filtering in, and he's certain that Roro isn't in charge right now.  We have a whole new cast of players, and the situation's very fluid.  You know this!"

 

Pannell stopped pacing, but his hands were clenched into fists.  "We've invested way too much into this.  Don't you see?  New people showing up could be the break we've been waiting for.  Sandburg's inexperienced.  Maybe he's jumping at shadows.  Is he sure they're not local and just from a different neighborhood?  That wouldn't be such a big deal."  

 

"Sandburg's still going through mug shots as we speak, trying to pick out faces.  According to him, the locals are all taking a backseat.  It's sudden, but we have to shut it down.  The situation is far too unpredictable and the risk it too high."

 

"I can't believe this," Pannell ranted, throwing his hands in the air.  "The manpower!  The time!  And you're going to throw it out the window at the first little speed bump."

 

Banks had no intention of negotiating.  He wasn't Sandburg's partner, but something in Sandburg's demeanor was off.  If anything, Simon had the sneaking suspicion the altercation in the warehouse was far more serious than his young detective was willing to share.  Hopefully, Jim would be able to worm the truth out of him, but he still needed to make a decision now.  

 

Pannell's bluster wasn't going to change his mind, but reaching a truce with the man was better politics.  "Listen to me, John.  It was your idea; in fact, you insisted on sending Sandburg into the warehouse outside of his routine to snoop around.  He walked into a whole new group in the middle of what he's sure was a major gun delivery.  For God's sake, give the man some credit.  It's a damn miracle and a tribute to quick thinking and cool head that he managed to talk his way out."

 

Pannell let out an exasperated sigh.  "Fine.  If he did as well as you say, then he probably didn't blow his cover.  Let's send him back in and find out what’s really going on.  A gun delivery could potentially be far more serious than solving drug-related murders and busting up a local gang."  

 

Banks tamped down all the grievances he'd love to bare.  If he was going to deal in truth, the list was fairly long. Major Crime had provided virtually all the man hours.  Narcotics had played a minimal role, most of it nay-saying practically every decision they'd made.  Now just wasn't the time.  He believed he'd made the right call, and didn't want Pannell to go over his head.  Chief Warren probably wouldn't overrule his decision, but he'd like to avoid the confrontation.  He took one last shot at polite persuasion.  "Maybe Sandburg maintained his cover, maybe he didn't.  I don't want to guess wrong and end up planning his funeral.  Do you really want that on your conscience?"

 

Pannell snorted contemptuously.  "There's always risk with going undercover.  He's a cop, and he accepted the assignment.  Tell him to put on big-girl panties and deal."

 

Pannell's assistant, sitting at her desk in the outer office, nearly jumped out of her skin as the sound of Simon Banks in full bellow.  She listened for half a minute, evaluated her options, and left the room.  From the sound of it, blood was going to spill, and she didn't want to be part of it.

 

&&&&&

 

The conference room in Major Crime was empty except for the two men hunched shoulder to shoulder over a laptop. Everyone else had dispersed; Banks to hash things out with Captain Pannell, Brown to wrestle with an irate motor pool and paperwork.  Connor and Rafe were making a run for Chinese for everyone. Ellison was making calls and planned to swing by the loft to bring more clothes for his waterlogged partner. 

 

 Taggart and Sandburg had spent a full hour with mug shots, without success.  Taggart was convinced the new players weren't local, and they'd moved on to trying to pin down more information about the shipment of weapons Blair had stumbled into.  "Why don't you relax, Blair?  I'll pull up another site."  Joel Taggart typed in some additional information, but his attention was focused on the younger man beside him.  Blair was unusually edgy and subdued, and it worried him.  In his gut, he suspected Blair was holding something back, perhaps something he didn't want to share in front of the group, or with his highly protective partner.

 

"Okay," Blair said, rubbing at his temple.  "I'll keep looking.  I didn't know firearms were one of your specialties."

 

Joel continued to feed information to the computer, but he was eager to get Blair to talk.  With luck, he could coax a few more details out of him.  "More of a sideline, and I'm not formally trained.  It kind of goes with bombs and general mayhem thing."

 

"Sorry," Blair said in a soft voice.

 

"Why should you be sorry?" Joel asked.  

 

"You retired from the bomb squad for a reason.  I didn't mean to drag you back into it."

 

Taggart turned and focused all his attention on his fellow detective.  "Blair, helping you narrow down the type of handgun you saw isn't quite the same as choosing the right wire on a bomb.  This isn't really a big deal."  He typed in some additional information.  "Actually, I'm surprised you've been able to remember so much.  In my experience, when someone pulls a gun on you, a few of the details get fuzzy."

 

"Yeah," Blair said, looking away.  He flushed, and shifted uncomfortably.  "I have a good memory for something I'd like to forget."

 

_What aren't you telling us,son?  Something's got you spooked.  Just how bad did it get in there?_  

 

"All right, let's take a look at these."  Joel turned the laptop show Blair could see the images better.  Joel clicked slowly through, making comments and suggestions, waiting patiently as Blair added more details.

 

"This one," Blair said.  He tapped the screen.  "I think this is it."

 

Joel's blood ran cold.  "Let me pull up another view," he said, hoping that Blair was wrong.  

 

Blair studied the screen.  He was grasping the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles were white.  "Yeah.  I'm sure.  That's what they had, and a lot of them."

 

"How many?"  Joel couldn't keep the dread out of his voice.    

 

"Cases, I think."  He looked at Joel, recognizing for the first time the concern on the man's expressive face.  "What?  I mean, any gun a gang uses is bad, right?  Joel?"  He was rubbing at his temple again when Joel saw it.

 

Joel pushed back from the table.  He turned and held Blair's eyes with a no-nonsense gaze.  "Push your hair back, Blair."

 

"My hair?  What?  Look, I know I'm a mess…"

 

Joel gently brushed a blond tendril off Blair's cheekbone.  A wicked-looking bruise, starting just above the ear, was forming.  "That's quite a bruise, my friend, and it wasn't there when I saw you this morning.  How'd you get it?"

 

Blair shrugged, silent.

 

_Ah, Blair.  That straight hair doesn't hide as much as your trademark curls._   "Did you hope no one would notice?"

 

Blair gave a silent nod.

 

"You didn't remember all these details from a casual glance at handguns tossed in a crate.  It's time you told me what really happened."  Joel waited and watched as Blair's breath shortened, and he chewed on his lower lip.  "Blair, not all that long ago you helped me through a really bad time.  We talked a lot about fear, and what it can do to your soul.  For me the fear was so bad I could taste it, breathe it."  Joel  waited again, and then said in a voice barely above a whisper,  "You can tell me."

 

"He jammed it in my ear," Blair said in, each syllable apparently an effort.  "Traced along my jaw."  He struggled to keep his composure.  "He kept it there for a long time.  A really long time.  I thought I was dead."

 

Joel dropped a hand to Blair's knee.  "Dear God in heaven.  That's an image you don't want to keep in your head, son."

 

"I told you.  Let's leave it at that, at least for now, and don't tell Jim just yet, okay?  It will only complicate the decision making process." Blair pointed at the screen.  "I saw your reaction.  Just tell me how bad it is.  Assuming I haven't screwed up, what are they?"

 

Joel looked back at the computer screen.  "We’ve never run up against them here before, not in large quantities.  It's an HN Five-Seven," Joel said, weighing his words carefully.  "Twenty round clip.  The cartels in Juarez with the right connections have been getting military-grade ammo from the Mexican army.  The combination goes right through Kevlar.  They call them 'metapolicias' – cop killers."

 

All the color left Blair's face.  A moment later, he was hunched over the garbage, retching again and again.  Joel knelt by his side, his arms wrapped around Blair's shuddering frame. 

 

&&&&& 

 

The conference room was crowded again.  At one end of the table, a glowering Captain Pannell jostled for elbow room with a calm, serious Joel Taggart.  Simon Banks sat at the opposite end, with Captain Pete Andreson, the commander of Cascade PD SWAT teams, seated to his left.  Andreson, a lean, six-foot, former SEAL, was engaged in quiet conversation with Ellison.  Members of Major Crime directly involved with the operation took the other spots, although Henri Brown had opted to yield his seat to Connor and was lounging against the door frame.  At a signal from Banks, he pulled the door shut.

 

"Sandburg, exactly how long has it been since you left the warehouse?" he asked.

 

Sandburg, lost in his own thoughts, jerked at the sound of his name.  "Sorry, Captain.  I'm not entirely sure."  Pannell snorted, and Sandburg's irritation crossed his face.  "I wasn't really looking at the time, if you know what I mean."

 

Jim filled in the gap promptly.  Pannell was such an arrogant so-and-so.  In, Jim's opinion, the man should be strangled in his sleep.  "Five hours since the warehouse, just shy of three since the mall.  Enough time for the X-8s to clear out if they're suspicious."

 

"If there's any chance we can get those guns before they go into circulation, we should take it," Pannell said.  As usual, his tone was argumentative, as if he was daring anyone to disagree with him.  "We know the layout.  We should have gone in immediately."

 

"Time's important, but it's not the only consideration," Banks said.  "We need to make a sound decision before we commit personnel to an all-out assault, and that's assuming an assault is the way to go.  What do you think, Pete?"

 

Andreson face was calm.  "I've reviewed the material Taggart put together, and I agree with his conclusions.  The Five-Seven is bad news for every cop within two hundred miles." Andreson paused and placed both hands flat on the table in a very deliberate gesture.  "For those of you who aren't familiar with the weapon, it weighs just a pound and a half, fully loaded.  It's very powerful, almost no recoil and extremely accurate.  Consider it essentially a rifle in a handgun package."  That summary had everyone's attention.  He continued in the same low, measured tones.  "The real issue is the ammunition.  If they're using illegal ammunition, it's much more dangerous."

 

"And we have no way of knowing that.  If you don't want to raid the place, then Sandburg should go back in," Pannell interrupted.  "Let him find out for sure what we're dealing with.  If we don't go now, my men in Narcotics are going to be dealing with them day in and day out.  Let's quit messing around here."

 

"You must be joking," Taggart said in a voice laced with indignation.  At Sandburg's request, he hadn't elaborated the more chilling details of the warehouse encounter.  He felt the need to focus on the tenuous nature of the circumstances without betraying Blair's confidence.  "These people don't wait to build a case before they kill.  If they have any suspicion, any suspicion at all, Blair would never live to come back out and tell us what he saw. That's the real issue.  I'm not sure if the nature of the weapon really makes a difference to our planning."

 

"Then send SWAT in and make the seizure," Pannell said.  "Game over."

 

"Great," Andreson said with undisguised sarcasm.  "The gun was developed for NATO to perforate body armor.  I'll just have a quick chat with my SWAT teams and let them know all that body armor and those Kevlar helmets might just as well be tinfoil, and then we'll rock and roll."  He turned to Blair.  "Sandburg, make a guess.  If we went in ten minutes from now, how much firepower would we be facing?"

 

Sandburg seemed reluctant to answer.  "They were handing those guns out like Halloween candy.  At least twenty guys were waving the new weapons around when I walked out of the warehouse.  If you want my opinion -"

 

"We don't," Pannell said, slapping the table in front of him.  "You don't have the experience.  This is no time to -"

 

"Let him finish," Ellison said angrily, entering the conversation for the first time.  He looked ready to launch himself over the table at Pannell.  Only when Pannell backed down did Jim reluctantly settle back into his own chair.

 

Blair waited for a nod from Captain Andreson.  "There are easily thirty guys in and around that area at all times.  There are watchers all through the neighborhood.  Some I know about, some I don't.  It can be a simple as a kid with a cell phone who gets paid fifty bucks a week to watch."

 

"So you don't know where all the lookouts are?" Andreson asked.

 

"No," Sandburg said firmly.  "There's zero chance of catching them unawares, and it will be an all-out firefight if you try a frontal assault."  He went silent for a moment.  "I think you'd have a lot of casualties even if you went in with a tank."

 

"That's what I thought," Andreson said grimly.  "Simon, I don't want those guns on the street, but if it isn't a hostage situation, I can't recommend that kind of assault.  Not on such short notice and not with incomplete information."

 

"This Elizar, how would you assess him, Blair?" Joel asked.  If Blair wouldn't divulge the dangerous nature of the showdown directly, maybe he could bring it into the discussion another way.

 

"I've only seen him twice, and he was there when I made the last pick-up.  Really spoke to him only today, but I think he's running the entire show."

 

"Give us your best guess, son," Andreson said.  

 

"From what I saw, he's ruthless and very smart.  Certainly smart enough to get those guns out of there in a hurry."  Sandburg paused, waiting for someone else to make a comment.  Even Pannell seemed to get the hint it was time to shut up.  "I think it's a lot more likely that by now, they've cleaned everything of value out of that site.  If anything, they'd set up an ambush, just on the off chance I was a problem and brought heat down on them."  

 

Pannell started to speak, and Taggart cut him off.  "Simon, if they have that ammunition the reports are talking about, a frontal assault would be a slaughter.  Our SWAT teams are good, but this is a suburban neighborhood.  The casualties won't be limited to our personnel."

 

"Anyone else?" Banks said. 

 

"Well I have something to say," Connor stated flatly.  When she got irritated, her accent became more noticeable.  "All this is  shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted.  That shipment has been moved and broken up, period.  No raid is going to change that.  And all this talk of continuing the operation?  Sandy's a marked man.  We need to act accordingly."  She reached over and patted Blair's hand with a smile.  "I loved you as a blond, mate, but maybe it's got to go."  It was enough of a joke to break some of the tension in the room.

 

"I've contacted the ATF," Joel said.  "They may have some specific input. We don't have much, but maybe they can put the information to use.  Trace the shipment or something.  Give us better advice on how to move." 

 

"That's it then," Banks said.  "We shut everything down, and do the best we can with the information we have."  Pannell looked thunderous, but Andreson was nodding in agreement.  Banks looked sharply at Pannell, primed for another outburst.  Having Andreson's support was a blessing.  "Put the word out about what we're facing and put every officer on high alert."  

 

"You'll do no such thing."

 

The alien voice snapped everyone's head toward the door.  A thin, hawk-faced man shoved his way passed Brown, who yielded unwillingly.  "Brian Fowler, ATF," he said holding his ID up.  "Who's Taggart?"

 

"I am," Joel said, rising from his seat.  He gestured toward the head of the table.  "Captain Banks is in charge of the operation.  A phone call -"

 

"Whatever," Fowler snapped.  "No one leaves this room.  You're shut down.  This operation is now under federal jurisdiction."

 

&&&&& 

 

"I should have known," Jim said bitterly.  "As if the Narcotics guys aren't bad enough.  If something's going to really crash and burn, the Feds will have their fingers in it."

 

Blair rolled his eyes.  "Jim, we really need to work on your attitude.  They're just doing their job."

 

"I don't like being stuck in this conference room like truant school kids," Brown said.  "What's up with that?"

 

"Need-to-know," Jim said, folding his arms across his chest in disgust.  "They don't know, but we're not needed.  Idiots."

 

"Look on the bright side.  We got to watch a cat fight between four captains over who got to be at the 'cool kids' table," Blair said.  "I thought Pannell was going to melt down on the spot."

 

"That man is a walking tanty," Megan said.  "How does anyone work for him?"

 

"Didn't you know?  There's a prerequisite jerk test before you transfer to Narcotics."  Blair patted her arm reassuringly.  "I'm sure they'd have a remedial course so you could qualify."  He was happy to pick up the banter.  Jim had his head cocked slightly to the side, which meant he was listening.  At least they'd know what was really going on, not the pasteurized, edited version they would no doubt be told.

 

"You don't think they're actually going to lock us away, do you?" Rafe asked.  "Like in some secret prison and we'll never be heard from again?"

 

"No worries, mate," Megan said mischievously.  "I have the Australian embassy on speed dial.  I promise, I won't leave you behind."  She looked up as Joel came back into the room.  

 

Taggart didn't look like a happy man.  "Okay, here's the deal, and no one's very happy about it.  Apparently we walked into a huge federal operation.  Any minute they're going to try to use the Patriot Act."  He raised both hands to quell the uproar.  "Blair, the guy you identified as Elizar, is Elizar Isaola.  American born, but he's a major player with linkage to the Mexican drug cartels.  He's extremely dangerous, and classified by both Mexico and the US as a major security risk."

 

"What?" Blair said, with a totally shocked look on his face.  "No wonder he wasn't in any of our mug books."

"I knew it," muttered Rafe.  He shoved Henri's elbow.  "Told you.  Guantanamo, here we come."

 

Taggart gave them a rueful smile.  "It's not quite that bad, but this is a very high profile case, and they're very upset.  They're worried that anything we might do at this point will screw up months, maybe years of work, and damage our relationship with the Mexican authorities."

 

"That's not our fault, since they don't deign to share with any of the locals," Jim said pointedly.  "We're not psychic.  Let them tell Mexico to keep their psychos on their side of the border and leave us alone."

 

"Well, technically, Jim, he's one of ours," Blair said with an impertinent grin.  Everyone else in the room appreciated the irony, but Jim just folded his arms in disgust.

 

"Rest assured, Simon has already brought that up.  Look, it's not that bad.  Reading between the lines, they were going to move in the next couple of days.  They'll either accept that we can keep things quiet it, or at worst, we'll be stuck in a safe house eating pizza and watching television for a few days."

 

"That's unbelievably insulting," Brown muttered.  "What do they think we're going to do?  Put it on our Facebook page?  

 

"With Pannell?  In a safe house?" Megan said.  She put her head on the table in despair.  "I bloody well will call the embassy."

 

&&&&&

 

Much to Jim's amusement, Megan did, in fact, play the foreign national card.  After a series of angry phone calls between Connor, the embassy, and assorted Federal authorities, apparently the decision was made to not offend Australian national pride.  As a result, the hotel wasn't half bad, and Pannell was on another floor with the merry men from Narcotics.  Major Crime scored connected suites on the top floor.  Isolated at the end of a long hallway, they could visit back and forth from their sleeping quarters without restriction.

 

"Hey, mates, our food's on the way."  Megan hung up the phone and grinned evilly.  "We're getting Thai for Sandy and me, and barbecue for the rest of you big blokes.  Pannell gets the pizza, and I hope it's greasy and cold."

 

"Any word on our illustrious Captains Banks and Taggart?" Jim asked.

 

"Coming with our food," Megan said.  "This is working out reasonably well.  I should have threatened to call the embassy months ago."

 

"Wouldn't have worked," Blair said, looking up from his book.  "Simon isn't interested in citizenship, international or intergalactic.  He's an equal opportunity kind of guy."

 

"I heard that, Sandburg," Banks said, glowering from the doorway.

 

"Entirely complimentary, Simon.  Entirely complimentary."  Simon rolled his eyes.  He'd never train Sandburg to use the formalities of address, no matter how hard he tried.

 

They ate, and spent the time relentlessly quizzing Banks and Taggart.  Finally Simon shrugged, and summed things up.  "This is going to be a one night thing, and we'll be out by morning.  The official stance is that they weren't interested in any info from us.  The reality is they were taking our crumbs very seriously.  My gut says they're going in right away, hoping to catch that shipment."

 

"They did keep Andreson to advise," Taggart said.  "At least that's hopeful.  Andreson's a good man."

 

After a brief argument over what movie to watch, they settled in.  Around seven, dusk, wind and a persistent storm had moved in from the coast.  Rain pelted against the windows.  Every twenty minutes or so, their Federal babysitter stuck his head in to make a head count, as if they might have bailed out from the eleventh floor.  They tried to ignore him and not hassle the guy too much.  After all, as Blair had said earlier, he was just doing his job.

 

By eight, the wind was howling in vicious gusts.  After one particularly violent blast shook the windows, they all exchanged glances.  "Horrible night to run an operation," Jim commented.  "I hate to say it, but better them than us."

 

Shortly before nine, Jim's head snapped up.  He made an effort to minimize his actions, but Blair could tell he was ignoring the movie and listening to some distant sound.  Whatever he was hearing brought a deep frown to his brow.  To Blair's unspoken, questioning glance he mouthed a single word when the others weren't looking.

 

_"Gunfire."_

 

A few minutes later, they all heard a muffled explosion, followed in short order by a chorus of sirens joining the wind.  Breaking all the guidelines from their Federal minders, Jim went on the balcony and into the storm.  He came back soaked through and grim.  "I think it went down, guys, and it's not good.  I can see flames from here."

 

"Shit," Brown said softly.  "Those guys ticked me off, but I hope they don't have anyone killed in the line."

 

&&&&&

 

Brian Fowler felt sick.  Three agents DOA, and another five down, all for nothing.  They'd run into a few underlings with great firing stations and a death wish.  The shipment was gone, just as the locals had predicted.  Isaola was nowhere to be found.  The entire operation had been a waste of good men, and tipped off the cartels to boot.  They'd convinced the Mexican Federal Police to leave this in their hands, and they'd blown it.  He fervently hoped not to be the one stuck with informing them.

 

Mitch Bristol, the lead FBI agent, motioned him over to a cluster of other brass, trying to shelter out of the wind and rain.  Of everyone involved, Bristol had been the most insistent on moving quickly.  Fowler shook his head as he crossed to join them.  It wasn't the time for  'I told you so', but the personnel from Cascade, particularly the ones from Major Crime, seemed pretty sharp.  They should have worked with the locals, taken their information into account.  It might have saved a few lives.

 

As usual, Bristol was dominating the conversation.  Bristol had a great reputation, but Fowler had come to resent the brash, ambitious, young man.  He listened closely, trying to ignore the trickle of cold rainwater snaking down his neck and back.  "We don't have to handle this officially, not yet," Bristol was saying.  "There are options here."

 

"Like what?" Fowler asked, trying with little success to mask his anger.  He kicked himself.  It would have been better to listen for awhile, get the flow of the conversation.

 

"For starters, get Cascade PD off their butts and have them send their guy back in.  We could still get a lead on Isaola.  Save a lot of grief all around."

 

"How do you figure that?" Fowler asked, sure he'd heard the man incorrectly.

 

"The Mexicans won't be pissed off if we get Isaola.  He's the link between the cartels and the gangs on the American side.  The rest of this can be handled."

 

Fowler couldn't believe what he was hearing, offended on multiple levels.  As if five of their own dead was something to be 'handled'.  Not to mention that they'd run roughshod over the local operation, blown them off as a bunch of rubes, and Bristol thought this would work?  "You're going to ask them to send their man back undercover?  After this?" he asked incredulously, waving his hands toward the still-smoking buildings down the street.

 

"No, of course I'm not," Bristol said with his usual arrogance.  "You're going to do it.  Get over to that hotel and go ask them.  Tonight."

 

&&&&&

 

Blair stared at the darkened ceiling, unable to sleep.  Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the gun shoved into his temple, saw Isaola's face.  The bruise on his temple ached, and he had to fight down waves of nausea over and over again.  He'd been scared before, but somehow, this seemed different.  If he didn't get himself under control, Jim would be in here any second, demanding an explanation.  As much as he wanted to confide in his partner, that was a conversation he wasn't ready to have.

 

"Chief?"

 

Blair jerked in surprise.  Jim was standing at the door, silhouetted by a dim light from the sitting room.

 

"Sorry.  Simon's here – and, well – just throw on some clothes, okay?"

 

&&&&& 

 

Isaola circled the warehouse, examining each crate of weapons in turn.  Some tasks you didn't trust to anyone.  At least the shipment hadn't been lost when they'd abandoned the original site.  His superiors weren't patient men.  Even though the weapons were safe, they would be unhappy that the authorities had come close.  He didn't intend to take the blame for the mistakes of others.

 

He stared at the group of men kneeling on the floor, clustered in the center of a grimy spread of cement.  Their faces showed the results of the ferocious beating each had endured.  It hadn't taken long to loosen their tongues.  Two had broken down almost immediately, hoping for a reprieve, and thoroughly incriminating the others.  They were his foot soldiers, not men from Cascade, which added to his fury.  The leak had come from his own organization.  He found that infuriating.  Action was demanded.  It was necessary to create an example, one that wouldn't be forgotten.

 

Jaime stood off to his left, silent and tense.  On top of everything else, his lieutenant hadn't killed the gringo.  He seemed very certain the green-eyed courier had not betrayed them.  A courier was easily sacrificed, but the raid created conditions that were more difficult.  The organization was badly exposed.  It was not the time to try to recruit someone new to fill that particular role.  On the other hand, it was not good to allow ones such as Jaime to think independently, or to feel comfortable.  The edge of fear improved performance and unquestioning obedience.

 

Yes, that was the solution.  If Jaime was going to be spared, then he still needed incentive to do his best work.  

 

Isaola pulled the skinning knife from his belt and opened the blade.  Ah, the Americans made beautiful items, this one honed to a frightening edge by patience and preference.  He paused momentarily, allowing Jaime to wonder if he was viewing the instrument of his own death.  Then he flipped the blade, extending the handle towards his uneasy lieutenant.

 

"Take their tongues, and then their faces.  All of them.  Make it last a long time."

 

Jaime swallowed hard, and accepted the blade.  "And after?"

 

"Leave them to be found.  Perhaps the place we saw earlier.  We need to send a message."  Isaola jerked his head in the direction of the kneeling prisoners.  One had started to sob, apparently realizing that turning on the others had not saved him.  Another murmured a prayer, as if God would make a difference in his miserable life.  Isaola closed the nearest crate and hopped up to sit comfortably.  "I will watch you begin.  Be enthusiastic in your work."

 

&&&&&

 

"I don't give a damn," Jim said angrily.  "We're not responsible for the men you lost tonight."

 

"I realize that," Fowler said.  Damn Bristol for sending him on this errand.  He didn't blame these guys one bit.  "Look, obviously this whole thing could have been handled better."

 

"You think?" Jim said sarcastically, not the least mollified.  "What, the body count wasn't high enough?  You need to add a few of ours to the total?"

 

"That's enough, Ellison," Simon said sharply.  "That was totally uncalled for."

 

"Maybe," Jim snapped, losing not one bit of is aggressive posture.  "But not entirely untrue."

 

Taggart placed a hand on Jim's arm.  "I don't think Agent Fowler is disputing the facts, Jim.  Let's try to keep this professional."

 

The five of them were gathered around a small table in Simon's room.  During the tense twenty minute meeting, Blair had said virtually nothing.  He was paging slowly through a thick file, one that Fowler had brought with him.  The file was spread flat in front of him, so the others could see if they cared to.  According to Fowler, it was everything the US and Mexican authorities had compiled on Elizar Isaola.

 

"Fowler, maybe it's time for you to quit beating around the bush.  What exactly did you intend to accomplish here tonight?" Simon asked pointedly.  "It's a little late for an apology and nothing else."

 

Fowler took a deep breath.  This wasn't going to be easy.  "From an international and security perspective, we need to salvage as much of the operation as possible.  We want your man to go back under.  Find out where the guns are."

 

Jim exploded.  "You are out of your fucking mind!  After this fiasco tonight?  You have no right to even suggest such a thing!  We'd already made the decision to shut it down."  

 

Taggart and Banks added their own howls of protest.  Blair was silent, his eyes riveted on a photo in the file.

 

Fowler let the arguments rage and finally raised his hands for quiet.  "I haven't heard anything from Detective Sandburg, and he'd the most directly involved."  He reached across the small table and picked up the photo Blair had been viewing.  After taking a long look himself, he spoke in a flat, emotionless voice.  "I remember that one.  It was last fall, in Juarez.  Isaola was on the Mexican side of the border.  He and his men retaliated against a judge involved in the drug prosecutions.  It was his six-year-old daughter's birthday party.  From what we could tell, they stormed in as the guests were gathered to watch her blow out the candles."  He put the photo back down, turning it slightly to square it in Blair's view.  "Fourteen adults and twenty-two children were gunned down.  The only survivor was the judge's infant son, napping in the bedroom.  The walls were riddled with bullets.  God knows why he wasn't hit."

 

Jim seemed to anticipate what was about to happen.  He spoke in an anguished voice, barely above a whisper.  "Blair, no.  You can't bring them back.  None of this is your fault.  It's suicide to do this."

 

Blair slowly closed the file.  His voice was steady, but barely audible.  "I'll go."  He stood up, ignoring Jim's frantic expression.  "I'll go in, but we run the operation our way.  Absolutely no interference from you, and your people agree to give us everything we want.  That's enough for tonight.  I don't want to talk any more right now."  He turned his back on the others, walked back to his room and firmly shut the door.

 

Fowler picked up the file.  "I'll meet you tomorrow.  Will eight in the morning be acceptable?"  Simon nodded, his eyes still on the door Blair had just closed.  Joel rose to walk Fowler to the door.

 

"Damn you," Jim said fiercely.  "God damn every last one of you."

 

&&&&& 

 

Once again, the Major Crime conference room was packed.  Due to the nature of the cases, both Federal and Cascade, casual access was barred.  It was in everyone's best interests if this meeting wasn't general knowledge.  Banks left instructions with Rhonda that absolutely no interruptions would be allowed.  The deliberations were far too serious.

 

The original team running the undercover operation, including the Major Crime detectives and their counterparts from Narcotics, were arranged on one side of the table.  Jim resisted in impulse to smack Captain Pannell as he took his seat.  Pannell's smug now-I-get-my-way attitude enraged him.  On the other side of the table were Fowler and an assorted selection of agents from the FBI, ATF, ICE and DEA.  To Jim they represented a veritable alphabet soup of agencies and agendas, none of which were terribly sensitive to the risks being proposed for his partner.  Agent Peter Bristol, from the FBI, had already made a play to grasp control of the entire operation.  So far, Simon's adamant refusal to yield was the only item in the 'good' column.

 

"I can't go back in before Thursday," Blair said.  "You're going to have to trust me on this."

 

"Of course you can," Pannell said.  "After what happened last night, we can't dilly dally around here."

 

Blair swiveled around in his chair to see the man better.  "With all due respect, Captain, your idea to send me in early yesterday wasn't a big hit with the X-8s."  His eyes darted toward Taggart.  So far he'd been able to conceal the bruises from Jim.  He really didn't want to discuss all the details if he could avoid it.  Being emphatic would have to suffice.  "I need to follow the routine that's been established if they're going to trust me.  The whole idea is for me to be able to walk back out alive."

 

Agent Bristol interrupted as the captain from narcotics began to argue his point.  "Waiting until tomorrow may lose us the only edge we have.  This isn't your case alone, Detective Sandburg.  It's just a tiny part of an operation with national significance."

 

"So noted, but it's our man walking in," Banks said.  "Our concerns aren't trivial."

 

"Captain, you're missing the point," Bristol insisted.  Your department will reap the harvest if these guys get established in Cascade.  It's the perfect jump off for points north and west.  That shipment of guns is their ticket in."

 

"Don't misjudge our level of awareness," Banks growled.  "We were working this case long before you guys showed up yesterday."

 

"Then how will you like your murder rate to double?" Bristol shot back.  "Or have drug-related crimes increase ten-fold?  Watch the public schools destroyed from the inside.  That gun shipment is the tipping point.  Let's get on the train here."

 

A clearly furious Banks stifled his response.  Jim picked up the debate.  "We're not talking about convenience," Jim said sharply.  "Sandburg has deliveries on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.  That's been set up from the beginning.  There's only one alternate site, which we'll have to use, since you guys had your little campfire last night."

 

"So why not go there and see who shows?  One quick peek and that might be all we'd need." Bristol demanded.  

 

Jim tried not to let his exasperation show.  "After last night?  These guys are going to be on edge.  Deviating from the routine would be like waving a red flag.  We won't accomplish anything except getting Sandburg killed."

 

"I'm still not entirely comfortable with the whole thing."  Simon tapped his pencil restlessly as he spoke. "For the rest of you, Blair was followed through his route yesterday.  That's never happened before, and it's a direct result of being caught hanging around before he was expected.  I agree with Ellison.  We're on very shaky ground here."

 

Tensions rose quickly.  Fowler, sensing that things were going to get ugly, tried for a more conciliatory tone.  "Captain Banks, maybe you should review the setup of your whole operation.  It might make it easier for the rest of us to contribute and have a better grasp of the situation.  For instance, how were you communicating with Sandburg when he was getting the drugs from the X-8s?"

 

Getting down to specifics seemed to help.  Banks and Pannell went through the entire operation, the communication codes, the lookouts, all the information they'd been able to learn from the investigation so far.  It was painstakingly slow, but at least the Federal people were listening.  Jim experienced a very uneasy moment.  When he was asked to describe their initial penetration into the gang, Agent Bristol's heartbeat went into double time.  He seemed to react to the name Eduardo Elma, AKA Roro, the gang member who had introduced and secured Sandburg's entry into the drug operation.  

 

Jim stared blatantly at Bristol.  The man noticed, and looked down and away.  He recognized the name.  Jim was sure of it.  What did the man know?  And why was he unwilling to share it?

 

&&&&&

 

_I should call my wife.  Apologize for thinking that becoming a medical examiner was a good choice after med school._

 

Dan Wolfe slumped wearily behind his desk.  Being called out of a warm bed at four-thirty in the morning was a bad start, but it paled in comparison to the rest of the day.  Five bodies.  Five horribly mutilated bodies, abandoned on the playground equipment of an elementary school, strung up like hunks of meat.  Thank God a routine patrol had found them, and not some emotionally fragile elementary child.  What kind of people did this to other human beings?  The whole business sickened him. For all the world, he wanted to walk out of here and never come back.  Find a nice office practice treating sore throats and giving back-to-school physicals.

 

A sense of duty forced Wolfe back to the task at hand.  Certainly there was no doubt about the cause of death.  Identification for the five victims would be limited to dental records or DNA.  Fingerprints, hair, face – those features had vanished, apparently peeled away under a knife in this orgy of savagery.  He had one tiny clue; a single, distinctive tattoo, located high on the left shoulder blade of one of the bodies. Any explanation as to why the mutilation was incomplete on that particular victim…well, that was anyone's guess. 

 

Ten years ago, he might have been burrowing through stacks of case files, looking for a match.  Computers were good for something.  He entered the description of the tattoo along with a scanned image into the search engine.  He got a hit almost immediately.  Height, weight, age were all reasonable matches.  Based on the notable list of convictions, Wolfe accessed the man's state prison records.  Interesting.  He'd been stabbed during incarceration, requiring surgery.   It required a few more calls to speak with the prison doctor.  The victim's blood type matched the prison records.  They could start the tedious process of matching DNA, at least for that victim.  Maybe one identification would lead to the others.

 

Wolfe went back to the database and sighed with regret.  His next conversation would need to be conducted in person.

 

&&&&&

 

The arguments were getting heated.  Shortly before eleven, a knock at the door brought yet another testy interchange between Bristol and Banks to an abrupt halt.  Rhonda appeared in the doorway.  "I'm sorry Captain Banks.  Dan Wolfe is here and insists on speaking with Detective Ellison immediately."  She hesitated.  Rhonda might not hold the title of detective, but she knew most of the details of the undercover operation and the current meeting.  Banks would trust her judgment if he had time to think about it.  "I really think he should see him right away, sir."

 

Jim practically vaulted out of his chair.  A hush fell over the room.  After a few torturous minutes, Jim returned, his face grave.  "Captain, sometime early this morning one of the patrols stumbled onto what has to be an execution.  Dan did the preliminary autopsies this morning.  It may be linked to our original investigation of the X-8s."

 

Simon blanched.  "Autopsies, as in plural?  Does it fit the MO they were using?"

 

"Not exactly."  Jim gave Sandburg a long look, evidently hesitant to share this news.  He held a folder tightly in his fist, and didn't share the contents.  "The patrol found five bodies tied to playground equipment at Jackson Elementary.  Someone made a good decision and kept everything under wraps, because it's pretty sensational.  The victims were all men.  All of them were beaten badly, and ultimately died from massive blood loss."  He swallowed, choosing his words carefully.  "The skin on their faces, hands and torsos was removed with an extremely sharp knife.  Genitals sawed off.  Dan suspects they were mutilated while still alive."

 

"Dear God in heaven," Taggart murmured, accompanied by a rustle of uneasy movement from the others around the room.

 

"Some of the Mexican cartels do that to informers," Fowler said.  "After last night –"  He gestured with his hands at the futility of it all.

 

"That isn't all. He found a tattoo on one of the victims."  Jim made no secret of turning his gaze toward Bristol.  "Dan is certain it was Eduardo Elma, better known to us in Cascade as Roro."

 

 Simon was out of his chair in a heartbeat.  "That tears it.  We have to assume that Sandburg's been made."

 

In the stunned silence that followed, several things happened simultaneously.  Blair disappeared from the room in a rush, with Taggart right behind.  As concerned as he was for his partner, Jim's eyes never left Bristol.  The others in the room picked up on the tension between the two men.  The FBI agent broke first, and looked down, flipping through a black notebook lying on the table in front of him.  Jim would have placed a bet that the man was trying to buy a little time.

 

Bristol flipped the notebook shut.  "How certain is your pathologist?"

 

"He wants to confirm from DNA, but he's certain enough to come up here personally and pull me out of a closed meeting," Jim said.

 

"If your mole was only one of five, maybe his execution was part of something else," Bristol said with a shrug.  "Maybe your operation is just fine."

 

"Why would we think that?" Jim asked coldly.  He folded his arms belligerently.  "Maybe you could enlighten us."

 

"It's just an observation, Detective," Bristol responded with a bland expression.  "In my experience, there aren't many absolutes when you're penetrating a criminal organization."

 

Jim started to respond, and belatedly looked at Simon, silently asking his permission to take the representative of a federal agency over the hurdles.  Simon gave a slow nod.

 

"Bristol, you've been after these Mexican cartels for a long time.  As you're fond of reminding us, this is a big international, multi-agency investigation.  They just murdered five people and strung them up like sides of beef."  Jim tossed one of the photos given to him by Dan Wolfe onto the table.  In all its gory detail, the photo skidded to a stop in front of Bristol.  It was quickly followed by four more.  "Before I watch my partner walk back in and throw the dice with his life, I want to hear something out of your mouth other than a lie."

 

The FBI agent immediately bristled.  Fowler's firm hand stilled the denial before it passed between his lips.  "You're right," Fowler said in a low voice.  "Eduardo Elma is - was - one of our informants.  Has been for a long time."

 

&&&&&

 

Joel Taggart pulled another length of paper towel from the dispenser, folded it, and dampened it with water.  Blair emerged from the stall, still a bit shaken and pale. "Here, take these and wipe your face."  Blair complied, and tossed the crumpled mass into the trash.  Joel held out a bottle of water, already uncapped.  "Wash your mouth, and take a sip."

 

Blair rinsed, and managed a few swallows.  "Thanks, Joel.  You'd think I could get my act together by now."  

 

"Looks like a pretty commonsense reaction as far as I can tell.  Remember me?  The guy who had the shakes so bad he couldn't flip a light switch, much less pull the wires on a bomb."

 

Blair leaned wearily over the sink, both his arms braced.  "You don't see anyone else running out the door to hurl in the toilet, do you?"  

 

"No one else ran the risk of being killed in the worst possible manner.  No one else had a gun held to his head, or had this gang of murdering thugs stalk them across town." He gazed calmly at Blair, his dark eyes gentle with understanding.  "I'm guessing that you still haven't told Jim or Simon what you told me yesterday."

 

Blair shook his head.  "It was such a mess, and then we were banished off to that stupid hotel,  and I didn't think it mattered anymore."

 

"And then Fowler showed up with his file and his pictures and guilted you into this."

 

"Joel, you saw those pictures.  Those children –"  Blair stopped, unable to continue.  "Last night - you didn't say anything either."

 

"No, I didn't.  It was your place to say, but only up to a point.  Considering what we've been told, if you don't say something when we go back in, I will."

 

"I guess it needs to be considered."  Blair leaned his head against the mirror.  His eyes fluttered closed, showing his fatigue.  "I didn't sleep too well last night.  I don't want to be the coward who let these – animals – get away."

 

Joel shook his head vehemently.  "And you don't see the huge gulf between cowardice and common sense?  Blair, the original case was what, seven murders spread over ten months?  And we're just a sliver of what goes on across the county.  In Mexico they've called the army in, for God's sake."

 

"But I'm the one, here, right now, and no one else –"

 

"That's enough," Joel said, his normally calm tones rising in anger.  "The president of Mexico sent in almost fifty thousand troops to fight the drug war.  Parts of the country are practically a war zone.  You're not responsible for carrying this whole thing on your back!  Now we're going back in there, and you damn well are not going to hang your head in shame.  You're going to tell the truth about what happened.  In the end, you're not the one who's going to make the final decision."

 

&&&&&

 

Elizar Isaola, like any man running a business, had problems.  Men above him in the organization demanded results.  In turn, he demanded obedience and absolute loyalty from the men who answered to him.  Informants – he hurled a string of invectives at the thought.  He'd acted swiftly, decisively, and in the process created new difficulties.  Dead informants sent a message to his own men, and the opposition who paid them to betray.  Now, in the light of day, he realized that in his haste, he'd also forfeited the opportunity to gain much-needed information.

 

He alone had made the decision to send Roro to this city in the north.  That decision had been made years ago; Roro a younger cousin of a long time member of the cartel he served.   Lazcano , a man tested and trusted, had vouched for his cousin.  Roro had gone north and done well; a few arrests, but a profitable toehold had been established.  Based on his success, the organization had chosen Cascade to be a northern distribution point, not only for drugs, but for the guns, based on previous success.

 

Many organizations sold drugs.  To be successful, you had to be the strongest, the most ruthless.  You had to recruit foot soldiers, cultivate the next generation.  The metapolicias - those guns were the best recruiting tool known.  Nothing enticed a brash young one more than a gun better than the one his rival carried.  The guns were the irresistible lure.

 

Despite the raid, the guns were safe.  He'd caught Lazcano communicating with the America Federals, and Isaola himself had questioned him.  He'd confessed, implicating the others, but not Roro.  Roro, the last one killed, had denied to the end.  Isaola had killed him anyway; after all, how could you trust the cousin of a traitor?  Now, in the light of day, he realized his error.  He could have tested the man somehow, determined if he could still be useful.  Roro knew Cascade.  He was the link.  He knew the operation and the people.  Could they move and continue, or should he take his organization and, more importantly, the gun shipment and leave?  

 

If the Cascade network was secure, with caution, they could continue.  If Roro had been telling the truth, he would waste years of effort by leaving.  He couldn't ask a dead man.  Was Roro a strong man who lied until the end, or was he a loyal member who was the wrong man's cousin? Why hadn't he taken more time to learn the truth?  Pain eventually loosened all tongues. If the established couriers showed up, what would that tell him?  Was it bait in the trap, or a signal to proceed?  

 

And what about that green-eyed American?  He would be difficult to replace, but something about the man made Isaola uncomfortable.  Very cool, that one.  Maybe very brave.  Yet Jaime had followed him, confronted him, and decided he was safe to use.

 

If green-eyes showed up, was he worth the risk, or should he just kill him?

 

&&&&&

 

Ellison's reaction to Fowler's revelation was to swivel his ice cold stare towards Bristol, with a look that said, _'I knew you were lying all along, you bastard..'_  

 

Simon's reaction was more vocal.  "And you didn't think this was pertinent information?" he demanded angrily.  "So much for full cooperation."

 

"Obviously, we didn't know it was a problem until just now," Bristol said.  He behaved as if the issue was trivial, hardly worthy of consideration.  "Certainly you can understand that our relationship with inside informants is need-to-know, and restricted to a very small circle."

 

"Well, until I'm included on that list, this meeting is over."  Simon stood, his impressive height creating a looming presence at the end of the conference table.  "You want any further cooperation from us?  You'd best head down to our morgue, and start figuring out who those dead bodies used to be, and what kind of a risk they represent."

 

"As your pathologist indicated, identification without faces or finger prints makes that a lengthy undertaking," Bristol argued.  "We can't possibly do anything in a reasonable time frame."

 

"Then that's your problem to solve, not mine," Simon barked, already gathering his belongings to leave.  The other detectives mirrored his example, but all eyes were on the interchange between the two men.

 

"You're making a mistake, Banks!" Bristol snarled, coming out of his seat.  "What are you going to say when this burg of yours is drowning in five-seven semi-autos and your officers are being gunned down left and right?"

 

Simon turned at the doorway.  His contempt for the FBI agent and his maneuvering flooded his face.  "I'll say that our initial operation was interrupted and blown to pieces by impetuous and poorly led Federal agencies.  And I'll express confidence that if the Cascade PD was successful in penetrating this gang of thugs once, we'll be able to do it again."  Without another word, the Cascade PD officers filed out.

 

The outraged members of the Cascade PD poured into the bullpen as a group.  "I don't believe it!" Pannell sputtered.  "It violates every protocol, even defies common sense."

 

Banks reacted to the new situation quickly.  He wouldn't wait to take advantage of Narcotics Captain's unexpected support.  "Pannell, can you send someone with Rafe and Brown to examine where the bodies were found?"

 

Pannell nodded.  "Good call.  We go with our own information, no matter what they say.  I'll get a team to work with Dan Wolfe right away.  See if we can identify any of those bodies from our own files.  I'll also start working every source on the street we've got."  He took a few steps forward to look Banks in the eye.  "Whatever our differences may have been, no one from the outside plays fast and lose with the lives of someone from the Cascade PD."

 

Simon was shocked by Pannell's about-face, but let it go.  "I'll call Chief Warren and the Mayor.  Let them know where we stand."  Banks motioned Jim into his office and closed the door.  "Any idea where Sandburg took off to?  Or Taggart for that matter?"

 

Jim leaned back against the closed door and tuned out the ruckus in the bullpen.  Simon rarely acknowledged his sentinel senses directly.  I was a relief not to conceal what he was doing.  He isolated his partner's voice from the throng, approaching from some distance.  "I hear Blair.  They're headed back."  He shifted focus, zeroing in on Fowler's distinctive baritone.  "Fowler's pissed.  He and Bristol are going at it hammer and tongs.  Safe to say they have their own issues."

 

"Damn if this isn't a mess beyond belief.  Sit down, Jim.  I have a feeling Sandburg has something to tell us.  Keep your mouth shut and let him have his say."

 

On cue, after a soft knock, Blair and Taggart filed in.  Silently, Taggart filled four mugs with coffee from Simon's personal stash.  Blair took a seat, refusing to look at anything other than the floor.  Only after Joel pressed a steaming mug of coffee into his hands did he look up.  "I didn't tell you everything that happened yesterday.  In my defense, the Feds barged in, and I really thought the whole thing was shut down."  He raised his hands, palms out, to deflect the barrage coming from his partner and his superior officer.  "Please, guys.  I just didn't want to talk about it.  Give me a chance here, okay?"

 

"Okay, Sandburg," Simon said in a low voice.  "Tell it your own way."

 

"Most of it you know.  I went in early to pick up my delivery.  There were different guys there, and they went kind of nuts when I slipped in.  They dragged me over to see this guy Isaola."

 

"You'd seen him before?" Jim asked.

 

"Just the last time or two, from a distance," Blair said.  "Guys drift in and out all the time.  I didn't think it was important, but I have it in my notes."

 

"So what really happened?" Simon asked, trying to keep the narrative on track.  

 

"It got physical.  He pushed me around a little.  Testing me, I think."  Blair closed his eyes briefly, wishing this wasn't the image he kept seeing in his dreams.  He loathed repeating the story aloud.  "He pulled one of those metapolicias on me and held it to my head.  Threatened me.  Like I told you originally, I talked my way out."

 

Simon looked generally horrified. "And you let us believe they just asked you a few uncomfortable questions?  Jesus, Sandburg, speaking as your commanding officer, what the hell were you thinking?"

 

"Everything just happened so fast," Blair said plaintively.  "I know, it sounds lame."

 

"Not giving us a full, accurate report is one thing, Detective."  Simon's voice escalated as he continued to speak.  "We talked this to death before you ever went in," he said, pounding the desk to emphasize each word.  "We decided ahead of time the kind of events that would cause us to abort the operation.  After that kind of a confrontation, you should have run for cover the second you got free, not continued and completed the deliveries."  

 

Blair gripped the arms of his chair tightly.  "I know, I know, but everyone had put so much time into it, and then it seemed like Megan had covered our tracks."

 

"How did you get involved in this, Taggart?" Jim asked harshly.   Blair could tell from his tone that he was hurt as well as angry.

 

"Completely by accident.  When we were trying to pin down the weapons in the shipment, I commented that Blair seemed to know a few more details than a passing glance should give.  He pushed at his hair and I saw the bruise."  Blair sat motionless when Joel reached over and gently shifted a lock of hair behind Blair's ear.  "He didn't want to be the coward that blew the operation.  Don't say it, Jim," he said, looking sharply at the seething detective.  "I've already covered that ground."

 

"Was Roro there?" Banks asked.

 

Blair shook his head.  "We always had the feeling Roro was in charge of certain aspects, like setting up the delivery chains, but answered to others.  Looking back on it, for whatever reason, Roro made himself scarce after Isaola showed up last week.  I saw him in passing a few times, mostly from a distance.  He didn't seem to be in the inner circle anymore."

 

"Which might be consistent with the heavy hitters coming in from outside," Joel said.  "We don't really know how their organization functions at the upper levels."

 

"Bristol and Fowler have to know," Jim said angrily.  "Want to ask them, Captain?"

 

"Not particularly," Simon said with a grimace.  "I need to call Warren and the Mayor.  Sandburg, I can't think of a thing you and Jim could do right now to clarify the situation.  We won't hear from Bristol and his buds for a couple of hours at least.  I want the two of you to go home.  Take a break, get something to eat.  Talk this out between the two of you."  Both men stood. "Sandburg, I want you to make sure you have your head on straight before you go back on the street, and I'm not just talking about undercover."

 

"Yes, sir," Blair said, again staring at the floor.

 

Jim threw Simon a worried glance.  Blair normally reserved such formality to times he was teasing or being flippant.  It was a bad sign.

 

&&&&&

 

They drove home in silence.  Jim, because he was trying to control his temper and not lose it.  Blair, because he fervently wished the entire situation would evaporate.  From long practice, without any verbal consultation, they worked in the kitchen, making sandwiches, warming soup, slicing fruit, opening a new bag of chips.  Jim ate without enthusiasm.  Blair did little more than aimlessly stir the chicken noodle soup and push the other items around his plate.

 

"Not eating isn't going to help a damn thing, Sandburg.  Don't make a shitty day worse by starving."

 

"My food intake isn't the issue."  Blair tossed the soup spoon onto the table.  "Why don't you just yell at me and get it over with?"

 

"You couldn't talk to me?" Jim asked, somehow managing to get both bitterness and curiosity into the same sentence.

 

"Jim, you were already upset.  I wanted a little time to think it through on my own.  The day was such a roller coaster."

 

"We had time sitting in Simon's office, if I recall."

 

"Before or after they put us in isolation?" Blair asked angrily.  "At first I was just trying to get warm, if you recall.  My brain was frozen."

 

"Which was an idiot move as well.  As if I'd think a couple hundred bucks worth of clothing was more important than my partner!"  Jim was shouting now, pacing up and down the kitchen.

 

"It was confusing!  I needed time –"

 

"To what?  Fabricate a convincing lie?" Jim bellowed.  "You had time to talk to Taggart!"

 

"No! Taggart was an accident, and he left it up to me."  Blair leaped up from the table directly into Jim's path.  "I wanted to try to keep the case alive if I could!"

 

Jim snatched a mug from the counter and hurled it at the wall in frustration.  Shards flew everywhere.  "Not by getting yourself killed!  Not by deceiving your partner –"

 

Blair shouted right back in a fury.  "Who am I talking to here?  The guy who went undercover in a prison?  The one who infiltrated a mafia family?"

 

"There's a difference between –"

 

"Between you and me?"  Blair's voice dropped, brittle with emotion.  "The difference between you and me, because you're the real cop and I'm not?  When it gets down to it, isn't that what we're always talking about?  Isn't it, Jim?"

 

The anger drained out of Jim's face in one anguished moment.  "You can't believe that.  You've got to know that if I ever thought that, I don't anymore."

 

Blair stormed out, grabbing a jacket along the way.

 

Jim stood frozen, surrounded by fragments of pottery and an ominous silence.  He heard the trademark sound of the Volvo's engine before moving hesitantly to the phone.

 

"Captain Banks, please.  It's urgent."

 

&&&&&

 

Blair drove mostly on instinct without an actual destination in mind.  His cell rang and he tossed it angrily onto the passenger seat, ignoring the sound.  He knew it was Jim, and he didn't want to speak to his partner at the moment.  Five minutes later he ignored another call, which was followed quickly by a third.  He didn't even need to check the caller ID.  Banks, and then Taggart, without a doubt.  He was angry with all of them.

 

Actually, he was more angry with himself, angry that he was scared.  No, actually, that was wrong.  He wasn't just scared; he was paralyzed with fear, with the memory of that damn gun tracing along his temple, Isaola's finger twitching in the trigger.

 

He let loose a string of expletives at the world in general, then pulled off into the parking lot of a Seven–Eleven, just to have a place to stop.  He leaned his brow against the steering wheel, consciously slowing his breathing.  Anger fed on itself.  Anger wasn't productive.  As calm slowly returned, he realized he was hungry.  He had to snicker at the ridiculous nature of that thought, but he was starved.

 

He leaned across the passenger seat and pulled open the glove compartment, intending to retrieve his stash of energy bars and dried fruit.  A small plastic bin rolled out of the overstuffed mess and thumped on the floor boards.  Blair picked it up, suddenly carried away on a completely different track.

 

His contact lenses.  

 

At the start of the undercover operation, he'd left little emergency kits like this all over – his car, Jim's truck, his desk, the gym – just in case he needed to change into character suddenly.  Without knowing why, he slipped in one lens, then the second.  He flipped down the visor.  A stranger with green eyes stared back.  One with straight, blond-streaked hair.  From the depths of the crowded glove box he gathered the rest – the extra gold wire glasses, a grubby white hat, even a twin of the gold earring he always wore.

 

The realization came in a flash.  He was wearing the same jeans as he had on yesterday.  They hadn't bothered to come home and change after being sequestered in the hotel.  He released the seatbelt, and, by touch, located the telltale lump that slid the last puzzle piece into place.

 

He knew exactly what he wanted to do.

 

&&&&&

 

"I don't know!  I've told you three times already!"  Jim paced angrily in front of his captain's desk.  "I've called him.  He doesn't answer.  I've checked all the places I can think of."

 

A solemn Taggart shook his head.  "Simon, this isn't getting us anywhere.  Tell Bristol we appreciate his information, but for now we can't move.  He's going to demand an explanation, but I'm not sure you're obligated to give one."

 

Simon shrugged into his suit coat.  "For now, I'll just say we're waiting for our own teams to come in.  That we're putting off a decision until then."  He headed for the door.  "The two of you had a hand in cooking up this little mess.  It would be nice if you could come up with our undercover officer sometime soon," he added sarcastically.

 

"Well, lovely," Taggart said.  "Maybe I could be more help if you gave me a clue what happened at the loft.  I told you to go easy, Jim."

 

"No mystery," Jim grumbled.  "He yelled.  I yelled.  He left."

 

"Jimmm," Joel said reproachfully.  "Was he angry?  Upset?  Scared?"

 

"Probably all three."  Jim stared at the window with a pained look.  "I think he was actually more hurt than anything."

 

"Ahh.  And why was that?"

 

"Well, I'm not exactly sure.  Sometimes Sandburg's thoughts are like reading hieroglyphs without the Rosetta Stone."

 

"So take a guess, Jim."

 

Jim blew out a long breath.  "I think it had something to do with standards of copdom.  Is copdom a word?"

 

Joel gave him a wry smile.  "Double standards, to be precise?  Acceptable risks that are different for Jim Ellison than they are for Blair Sandburg?  I imagine Blair took exception to that."

 

Jim folded his arms defensively.  Hearing these things in Joel's quiet tones was a lot worse than being reamed out by Simon.  "Partners watch out for each other.   We're supposed to.  He's a damn mother hen with me and you know it," Jim said.

 

"Apples and oranges, Jim."  

 

"That's bull," Jim said angrily.  "I don't judge him differently."

 

"Of course you do.  It's easy trap for all of us to fall into, because you have totally different styles, different approaches.  You must realize that he doesn't want to disappoint you."

 

"That is so ridiculous," Jim said adamantly.  "He's been a cop for years now."

 

"You're not thinking, Jim.  Both of you, all of us, are pretty comfortable with Sandburg, the slightly off-beat, brilliant detective and Ellison, the action hero.  We take it for granted and the two of you do it as well.  You complement each other, not compete."

 

"So?"

 

"This undercover crap pushed Blair into the action hero roll.  He has one standard he measures himself by, and that's you.  It's going to influence his perceptions.  Like I said, he doesn't want to come up short.  Now think, Jim!"

 

Jim turned back suddenly, eyes wide.  "Oh, my God.  I swear, I'll kill him myself."

 

&&&&&

 

Blair flattened himself against the bike, screaming along the freeway.  At least it felt less risky this time.  He wasn't sending covert signals, and he had the helmet strapped on tightly.  He chuckled to himself.  Which was worth the greater concern?  Getting your head blown off by gunfire or riding a Harley without a helmet?

 

He felt strangely calm.  After all the thrashing indecision, now it seemed so clear.  The conundrum itself actually led to clarity.  They needed information.  There was no way to go in covertly, and no way to go in with protective backup.  It all came down to the needs of the few and the many.  Spreading the risk among several officers didn't reduce his personal risk one bit.

 

He came off the freeway, cruising the neighborhood streets at high speed, taking the corners as fast as he dared.  He'd already decided there'd be no stops.  He'd drive on the sidewalk if necessary.  If Isaola had a brain, and he did, lookouts would line the approach.  As a countermeasure, he was coming in fast.  The less warning the lookouts could give, the better.  

 

With the backup warehouse in sight, Blair accelerated.  He'd been here twice.  The swinging metal doors were defended, but never locked.  He hunched down, counting on the powerful engine to see him through.  One last time he hit the throttle, cocooned in the roar of sound.  He blew through the doors.  Shocked gang members dove for cover.  Isaola was visible, surrounded by three men, some rickety furniture and a few wooden crates.  Blair slowed and plowed through, sending a shower of broken wood and debris around him.  He practically pinned Isaola to the wall with the front wheel.

 

_Now or never._

 

&&&&&

Jim smashed a fist down onto the hood of the hapless Volvo.  Three parking slots down, Sandburg's motorcycle was missing.  "Fuck!" he roared.  "How could he fucking do this?"

Joel was already back in the truck, placing a frantic call to Banks.  "I don't care, Rhonda.  Get him out of the meeting and on this phone right now!

Jim careened out of the parking garage, laying on the horn as he dodged drivers who unknowingly happened into his path.  "What is he thinking?" he shouted to Joel.  "He's supposed to be the smart one."

Joel braced himself as the truck swung around another corner.  "Simon is meeting us at the WonderBurger on Harrison.  It's Blair's first bailout point."

"I know what it is, Taggart.  I helped pick the site.  Now Simon's brain have fallen out," Jim muttered grimly.  "If he thinks for one minute that I'm waiting –"

"He doesn't think it, Jim.  He's giving us a direct order."

"Shit!" Jim yelled, frustrated by both his captain and the two slow trucks that had him trapped with nowhere to go.  "Get the bubble light, will you, Joel?"

The light cleared traffic in short order.  Jim pushed the truck's big engine to the limit as they howled down the freeway.  Since there was nothing Joel could do about Ellison's driving, he decided to use the time to reason with him.

"Jim, listen to me.  It actually makes sense, in a weird way," Joel said quietly.  "I'll bet he's doing the exact opposite of what Isaola would expect, of what we would probably plan."

Jim rolled his eyes and kept driving.  "It's official.  Everyone around me has temporary infectious insanity, including you."

"No, Jim.  It could work.  The same way disarming felons with a vending machine works.  It's pure Sandburg."

"You're crazy.  You're all crazy.  I should have been an accountant."

&&&&&

He flipped up the face shield.  Isaola would see his eyes, his glasses, and not much else.  "Stupid!" he screamed in Isaola's face.  "What? A week, and you fuck this up!  What did you do?  They came to my house!"  For emphasis, he added a string of Quechua insults Jim had taught him when they were both a little drunk.  His grasp of Spanish profanity was nil, and the delivery was more important than the content.

The frontal assault put Isaola on his heels.  Blair felt a flicker of hope.  

"Who came?" Isaola demanded.  He seemed taken aback, which was exactly what Blair wanted.

The others began to press in.  A fast bluff was the only way to pull this off.  Blair continued to shout, hoping to continue in the same vein.  "The police, the FBI, how the hell do I know?  I bailed out the back window and ran.  They could only find me through you.  Who talked!  Who gave me up!"

"No one," Isaola growled.  "We killed the traitors."  His eyes narrowed. 

"Shit!  That means more cops!"  Blair leaned in, eyes blazing.  He had to sell it.  "Make up your mind, right now.  Are you shutting down?  'Cause I'm outta here if you are."

Isaola wavered.  He wanted to blow this American's head off, but the man had asked the very question that must be answered.  To show weakness now, in front of his men – unthinkable.  "Come tomorrow.  No change." 

Blair stared at the man, hoping to seem resentful and angry.  "I have a place I can stay, but things have changed.  I want one of those fancy guns you and Jaime were throwing around."  After a few moments of silence, he pressed the point.  "Come on, man!  The cops come for me, I want a way out.  I want the ammo, too."

Isaola's lip twitched, and he gave a quick nod to his lieutenant.  Jaime pulled a gun and clip from his own waist.  They were warm in Blair's hand as he shoved them deep into his coat.  "Tomorrow then. Have my money when I come.  My fee just doubled."  He flipped the face shield back down.  The smoke-tinted shield covered his eyes, disguising his intent as he turned the bike to leave.

&&&&& 

The truck bounced into the nearly deserted parking lot of the WonderBurger.  Banks, having a shorter distance to cover from the precinct, was already there.  Jim bounded out of the truck.

"Settle down, Ellison," Banks said, sensing the argument that was imminent.  "I've already sent unmarked vehicles to set up a perimeter.  For now it's the best we can do."

"No, it's not," Jim said.  He looked around, not wanting to say too much.  "I have to go in.  I just have to get close." 

"And if they make you?  You'd get both yourself and Sandburg killed."

"Simon, even if I can't get him out safely…" Jim faltered.  "I'm not going to let them carve him up with a knife like those other poor bastards!  If I have to, I'll -"  He spun around, eyes searching the distant street.  Soon the others could hear as well.  

Sandburg rounded the corner and headed their direction.  He stayed astride the Harley as it coasted to a stop.  Wide-eyed, he pulled the gun and the clip from his coat and handed it to Joel.  "Check the piece and the ammo.  Is it what we thought?"  

Collectively, they held their breath as Joel examined each bullet.  "Yes.  I think so."

Blair pulled his helmet off and handed it to Jim. "Then tell the Feds if they want those guns, they need to go now.  The crates are stacked along the north wall.  I was just in there.  It looks like they're breaking them down into smaller shipments right now.  Tell them to drop a fucking bomb on the roof if they have to.  If they wait even and hour, those weapons will be long gone."

Simon was moving immediately.  "Joel, call Pannell.  I'll call Fowler."

Left alone, Blair gave his partner an unreadable look.  He looked down at his hands, which were beginning to shake violently.  "Don't think about it," Jim said softly.  He approached Taggart, his truck keys in his extended hand.  "I'm taking the bike.  Blair's coming with me.  Call me when you know something."

&&&&&

The loft was quiet as night crept in.  Jim had turned off the volume, and let the local TV news run, bathing the room in flickering light.  The death toll would be high, but the assault was over.  Federal units, this time with the advantage of surprise, and backed up by SWAT from the Cascade PD, had stormed the building with overwhelming force and firepower.  As horrific as the outcome was, it paled beside the carnage each of the recovered weapons would have wrought on the street.

Jim refilled his own glass, and added a splash to Blair's.  "It was the right call, Chief, the only way it could work.  If the rest of us had stopped shouting for a few minutes, we might have figured it out, too."  He handed Blair his glass.  "Don't ever think you need to prove anything.  Not to me."

"Thanks."  Blair sipped with a grateful sigh.  The shaking had stopped after the second glass.  Jack Daniels wasn't his favorite, but for tonight – well, it didn't really matter tonight.  "Naomi's friends used to talk about drugs being a matter of choice, that what you did with your body was up to you, a victimless crime."

"Yeah," Jim said.  "I've heard that, too."  

Blair swirled the amber liquid still in his glass.  "It's not true.  I see victims.  Some innocent, some not so much, but they're all victims.  Why can't we make it stop?  Why do little kids die at birthday parties?  Even a lowlife like Roro should have the time to see his mistakes and change, not end up butchered like an animal."  

Jim ached at the hollow sound in his partner's voice.  "You know why.  Because there's evil in the world, and always will be.  You do your best and hope the good outweighs the bad.  Chief, every one of those guns means fewer people going to die too soon.  I count that as a win for our side."

"Is it?  Is it really?"  Blair looked steadily at Jim, a succession of emotion flitting through his eyes.  In the dim light, Jim could ultimately see the hope sneak back into his partner's eyes.  At his core, Blair Sandburg believed in hope, in the sliver of goodness present even in the worst human being.

If his partner survived with hope intact, Jim could count it as a win.  Narrow, hard-fought, but a win, nonetheless.  

The End


End file.
